An Easter Mob

I wrote this in March 1991, nearly a year after my visit to the Soviet Union. 

“Easter Mob” may sound like an oxymoron, but there is no other

way to describe the mass of humanity compressed within and around the walls of The Russian Orthodox Cathedral of the Ascension in Novosibirsk, Siberia, on Easter Eve. This was the first time in more than 70 that they were permitted to ring the bells, and bells are a huge part of any Russian liturgy. From my vantage point high in the cathedral, I looked out over a vast crowd processing joyfully around the perimeter of the church. They carried torches, bells, crosses, banners and - of course — holy icons.

It was a curious experience for an American. All night long, people pushed, shoved, and practically trampled me underfoot. I couldn’t get to places I needed to be. Yet I was receiving their warmest welcome, sharing their most sacred moment, made to sit while others stood, and invited to vantage points reserved for only a few.

From the balcony, I watched the sea of humanity beneath me — babies and babushkas, young military officers and sturdy nuns, the elegantly dressed and the impoverished. The sea moved in waves throughout the main hall. It swirled around circular candle stands. Its chanting sounded like the cresting and crashing of waves. All through the night, the sweetest aromas of incense and melting paraffin competed with the pungent odor of human hair singed by burning candles. No one was alarmed.

Three choirs, a dozen clergy, and the whole congregation moved, sang, prayed, wept, and laughed in a sacred choreography. As the evening progressed, the complexity and grandeur of the liturgy gave way to brief moments of stunning simplicity. Rococo basses and baritones dominated the night but eventually yielded to the stark clarity of a single soprano. She sang from the dome high above the crowd. The music was by Rachmaninoff; the sentiment was ancient and primordial. I do not understand Slavonic, but there could be no doubt: she was the herald of the dawn. She announced resurrection and life, and the rebirth of all that refines and refreshes the human spirit. Her song was an exclamation of hope in the midst of a collapsing empire.

I was told later that this extraordinary vigil was not extraordinary; it has been celebrated similarly every year for more than a millennium, including the darkest years of the Stalinist repression. Certainly I was not to attribute the crowds to glasnost. This mob-like phenomenon was being repeated in twenty congregations — Baptist, Adventist, Lutheran, etc. — all around our sister city, and in countless settings across the former Soviet Union.

At the core of the Judeo-Christian experience is the imperative to choose life. Even in the midst of their present crisis, believers who inhabit the remnants of the Soviet Union are doing this. I will think of my friends in those Siberian churches as we celebrate Easter this year. I give thanks for the faith that unites us and gives us hope.

The Day Jesus Disappeared

 We five cousins always went to the park on the Fourth of July. In 1960, the weather was cruelly muggy, but we ran, played, and picnicked until we were exhausted.

Darkness crept over us in slow motion. We spread our blanket on the hillside along with a gazillion other sweaty, sunburnt, malodorous kids. Soon, thousands of blood-sucking mosquitos joined the fray, buzzing their praise to their Hexapoda god for this July fourth feast.

Finally, the fireworks began. For a brief while, brilliant colors and loud noises filled the sky. Babies screamed; mothers oo-ed and ah-ed as rockets exploded above us.

When the last red glare faded, a fog of sulfur dioxide enveloped the crowd. We packed our now soggy blanket and food scraps and headed home.

Approaching the house, we knew something was wrong. A harsh light poured through every door and window. Loud lamenting echoed from within. Aunt Gena ran toward us, shouting, “Mam-maw is dead!” through her tears. “She died while you were at the park.”

Adults carefully ushered us past the hospital bed in our living room where she lay. We were not allowed to look. Everyone was crying, praying, and talking at the same time as they took us to the kitchen. It was hours before the hearse arrived to take her away. The adults took turns with us.

Some smoked cigarettes or drank coffee. They said very little. Our grandmother had been sick for a long time. We had watched her grow weaker. Now she was gone. 

My mother finally came to put me to bed. I got into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and crawled under the covers in my room. She sat beside me for a few minutes. “She’s better off now,” mom said between her sobs. “She’s with Jesus now. She doesn’t have any more pain. She’s in Heaven now.”

But the sounds of weeping downstairs belied this assertion.

Mom turned off the lights. She closed the door. I lay still in the darkness. I was alone, sad, confused, and afraid.

I raised my hand toward the ceiling. I prayed really hard. “Mam-maw, if you’re there, please touch my hand.” I held my hand there as long as I could manage it, but no touch was forthcoming. I repeated this several times.

I tried again. This time I addressed the hero of my childhood. “Abraham Lincoln,” I said, “if you’re there, touch my hand!” Surely, he was there but, just as surely, there was no response.

Upping the ante, I tried again. “Jesus,” if you’re there, please touch my hand.” Again, the room was still. No one and nothing touched my hand. 

Finally, I cried in desperation, “God, if you’re there, touch my hand.” I was taught that God could do anything. I waited for the longest time. My arm grew excruciatingly tired. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Did my family know I was hurting? Did they know that my heart was breaking? Were there any words, deeds, or thoughts that might have given me more comfort? But we were in such dysfunction; all of us were shut up in our own bubbles of pain, loss and shame. We were incapable of reaching out to each other.

I dropped off to sleep. Mam-Maw – and Lincoln, Jesus, and even God –went the way of Santa Claus for me that night. I was bereft, in a dark and lonely world. 

I wonder now if my whole career in ministry has been one long attempt to get Mam-Maw to touch my hand. Has all the scholarship, all the travel, all the meditation, all the conversations down all the years – has all that merely been my feeble attempt to get Jesus – or God, or even Abraham Lincoln – just to reassure me that they were there? Just to touch my hand? Perhaps, one day, they will. But that night, I sought, and I did not find. I knocked; the door did not open. I called. There was no response. 

The Holy Mobile

If you have ever visited the Philadelphia Museum of Art, you may have seen a great and colorful mobile by Alexander Calder, one of America’s foremost modern sculptors. Calder’s mobiles are huge, welded, metallic surfaces, delicately balanced and suspended so as to move constantly with the slightest currents of air.

Calder himself was one of the great and colorful characters in American life. He was noted for his love of double entendres, his shocking bluntness, and his willingness to take great artistic and personal risks. He was not noted for spirituality, piety, or for having even an inkling of religious sensibility. So the art world was puzzled when he named this Philadelphia mobile The Holy Ghost. Essays were written, and theologians speculated. What could this possibly mean?

Then someone noticed that the beautiful fountain at Logan Square lay on a direct axis between the art museum and the Philadelphia City Hall. A grandiose statue of William Penn and four huge carved eagles all had been mounted on that building. They were the work of Calder’s grandfather, Alexander Milne Calder, an immigrant from Scotland. The fountain itself had been carved by Calder’s father, Alexander Stirling Calder, another prominent sculptor of the city. So naturally, when the modem “Sandy” Calder installed his work, he thought of… Father, Son, and… Holy Ghost!

For many people in today’s world, even in the church, talk about the Holy Spirit carries just about this level of importance. If it is thought of at all, it is considered little more than an inside joke and as little understood. It has been called the “poor relation” of the Trinity, a bit of an embarrassment to modern minds. 

In the long history of the church, on the other hand, Pentecost was and is considered the third great festival of our faith. It brings to fruition and makes real the work silently begun at Christmas and declared to the world at Easter. It celebrates the gift of the Holy Spirit, the birth of the church on earth, and the gifts of the Spirit given to us for the transformation of the world. The Holy Spirit is God’s way of being “present” now. It is “in” the Holy Spirit that we discover both our unique individuality and our deepest communion with others, our freedom, and our most intimate love. The fruits of the Spirit, Paul wrote to the Galatians, are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, fidelity, gentleness, and self-control.

In the creeds, the Holy Spirit is worshipped as “the Lord, the Giver of Life.” The symbols of the Spirit are many; fire, dove, and wind are among the most well-known. Calder’s title for his Philadelphia mobile may have been more of a double entendre than he intended. For in 1951 he wrote, “The underlying sense of form in my work has been the system of the Universe or a part thereof. This is a rather large model.” Twenty years later, he emphasized, “I work from a very large live model.” That, my friends, sounds like the Spirit to me!

© Budd Friend-Jones
Faith in a Minor Key

The Harrowing of Hell

It's Easter Sunday. In church today, a strange thought invaded my brain. What if we didn’t have present participles? That is a strange thought, don't you agree? But seriously, what if we weren’t able to say, “Christ is risen!” repeatedly? What if we had to use active verbs or gerunds like “Christ rises” or “Christ is rising”?

Personally, I like these better. Far from announcing a fait accompli, a “done deal” or a state of being that never changes, they suggest a dynamic and continuous movement toward a higher or better level of reality. They are active and open-ended, and incomplete.

In this icon, Christ is one with the rest of us as he rises from hell. Eve and Adam represent all of humanity; Christ holds each one by the hand as he rises. Orthodox theologians agree that this represents the redemption of all humankind, even back to the beginning. There is a latent universalism in this icon, even a primitive D.E.I. (Diversity, Equality, Inclusion). This icon, known variously as The Harrowing of Hell, Christ’s Descent into Hades, Anastasis, or Resurrection, is the primary Easter icon within Orthodox Churches.

For me, “Christ is rising” offers more hope than “Christ is risen.” In Palestine, Ukraine, or Sudan, in the midst of the most horrible political polarization, in hospitals or unemployment offices, “Christ is rising” offers the possibility - even the inevitability - that positive change will yet be realized. If Christ rises, so may we.

© Rev, Gilbert Friend-Jones

See https://www.orthodoxroad.com/christs-descent-into-hell-icon-explanation/

Tree of Life

Michelle Cromer was hiking in a forest in the Lake Arenal region of Costa Rica. She came upon a huge and ancient ceiba tree. The ceiba trees were considered holy in Maya-influenced pre-Columbian civilizations; they are called “The Tree of Life.” It was said that their roots lead to the underworld; their trunk is the world in which we live, and the tree’s spreading branches hold up the sky. She had an “ah-hah!” moment:

         “As I stood under her creaking boughs, swaying, crooked limbs, overhanging branches coated thickly in pale green moss, I could feel a distinct and familiar shift in me… Standing there, looking up, I did the most unexpected thing – I dropped to my knees and wept uncontrollably. The rush of emotions – joy, peace and most of all, love - was so unexpected. It felt like the tree – this tree – was welcoming me home.” [i]

 “Trees are invitations to think about time and to travel in it the way they do, by standing still and reaching out, and down,” wrote Rebecca Solnit[ii]. Most of us have had “ah-hah!”  experiences in life – seeing the Northern Lights for the first time, standing beneath a giant Redwood, or sitting with a dying friend, to name a few.

When I entered the sanctuary of Peace Church (UCC) in Duluth, MN for the first time, I was overcome with a similar feeling. I felt strangely “at home” here - as if I had been here all of my life. It was as if my evangelical past and my progressive present were coming together in new ways. I was immediately impressed by the congregation’s choice of two striking works of art to guide their meditations. Jesus of the People by my friend, Janet McKenzie, hangs prominently in its worship space. Janet had used a Black female model for this Jesus. For that audacity she won the National Catholic Reporter’s worldwide art competition in the year 2000. 

More surprisingly for this decidedly Protestant congregation was a copy of the iconic Our Lady of Guadalupe, said to have appeared miraculously on Juan Diego's original tilma. I doubt that one can find either in the sanctuary of any other UCC congregation in America.
As I walked toward three large crosses that dominate the front wall, and toward the Table and these pictures, I felt physically pulled toward the right side of the sanctuary. In that moment, I saw Leah Yellowbird’s painting, The Tree of Life. I would like to say it called to me, but that would be wrong. It screamed at me. “Come here!” it demanded. I did. And I wept.

I don’t know the journey that this exquisite painting took to find its way into this place, and into my consciousness. Yellowbird said that she created the entire piece in a busy public space. People came and went, and came back again - asking questions, making suggestions and generally encouraging her. It took four years.

Leah Yellowbird[iii] identifies strongly with her First Nations Algonquin-Metis and Anishinaabe heritage. At an early age she learned traditional beading patterns from her aunt whose influence you can see in her work today. After a difficult time in her life, she moved physically to Grand Rapids, and artistically into painting, but she retained the

precision and delicate beauty of the finest beadwork of her tradition. Today her work is displayed in museums throughout the Midwest. Her online website contains some of the most beautiful artwork you will ever want to see.

 The Tree of Life painting has its roots in a period of turmoil and deep trauma, she said, but when I look at her painting, I don’t see the suffering. “Nevertheless,” Yellowbird said to me, “if they are honest, most artists will tell you that their art begins in trauma.” 

 The Tree of Life appears in many traditions around the world. In our Christian tradition, it appears at the beginning of Time, and at its ending, and throughout human history.  

 Yellowbird stresses that this is not a Christian work of art, at least not explicitly or literally so. Notice, she points out, that this Tree stands on the back of a turtle, Turtle Island.

 Robin Wall Kimmerer, among others, tells the Haudenosaunee creation story this way:

 At one time humans lived in the Sky world. At its center stood the Tree of Life. One day a fierce wind blew through the heavens. It toppled this great tree. Where the tree once stood, there was a hole. 

 A young woman, Gizhgokwe (who also is called Skywoman), walked over to the hole and peered

down. She saw only a deep, dark blackness. She came closer to the hole. And closer. The soil beneath her feet began to crumble, and she started to fall into the darkness. Quickly, she grabbed a branch from the Tree of Life, but it broke off in her hand. Into the abyss she fell.[iv]

 But it was not an abyss. At the bottom, there was water. Nothing but water. For as far as anyone could see, water, and water dwelling creatures. 

A flock of geese saw her falling. Knowing she was not a water creature, they flew up and caught her in their wings. She found herself sheltered in the soft feathers of the geese.

 A great ridge back snapping turtle swam slowly beneath Gizhgokwe and offered its back. The geese brought her gently down upon the back of the turtle.

All the sea creatures understood that this was not enough. She would need earth. They remembered that there is mud at the bottom of the sea. One by one they tried to retrieve it, but all of them failed. Finally, a little muskrat descended into the depths where, unfortunately, it died. When its body rose to the surface, they found a small dollop of mud in its paw. 

 Gizhgokwe spread this mud over the back of the turtle. She sprinkled seeds from the branch she  had brought with her from the Tree of Life. She danced, and the world became green with every kind of wild plant.

Hail Mary, Pietà

 When Elizabeth greeted Mary, she practically shouted her own version of the Ave Maria: “Blessed are you among women!” This is how we want to see her: Blessed, exalted, favored, chosen.  We dress her images in the finest gold, silver, fabrics and lace. She is the epitome of strength, beauty, and serenity.

We forget the elder Simeon’s blessing and prediction that a sword would pierce her soul. We forget the terror she must have felt when Herod’s soldiers came looking for her child, slaughtering so many children as they did so. 

We forget the horrors of this young mother who gathered up her newborn child in the middle of the night, her desperate flight across borders into an alien country, her becoming a refugee, a stranger in a strange land. We forget that, for years, she wondered furtively over Egyptian roads and countryside, struggling with language and laws, all the while seeking shelter and food.

We forget the panic she must have felt when Jesus went missing for three days, missing in a large anonymous crowd, missing somewhere in the tense urban streets and back alleys of Jerusalem; no one knew where he might have gone.

Hail Mary? We forget the apparent rejection by Jesus himself when she and her other children came to talk with him. “Who is my mother?” he said. Then, pointing to the crowd, he said, “These are my mother and my siblings. Those who do the will of God, they are my family.” Did this sword pierce her soul?

We forget her agony as she helplessly witnessed her child's arrest by brutal Roman guards, his trial in a sham court, and his scourging in a public setting while the crowds jeered and mocked. We forget her despair as Jesus staggered under the weight of his cross on the road to Golgotha. We forget, finally, that she watched life ebb from his suffering body, the same body she brought forth from her own.

Hail Mary? We forget that, as the sun descended in the sky, she accompanied his broken body to a borrowed tomb. We forget the heavy rock that barred her from giving a farewell kiss to her beloved child.

Alas! An even greater pain may have penetrated her soul. 

Did she ever know this child? This child who lived in two realities simultaneously? Do we ever really know the “other,” even when the “other” is our own child? 

Judith Dupré writes,

“We cannot know the inner recesses of another person’s soul, those mysterious gulfs that mark the inevitable distance between individuals. As parents or caregivers, we plan, hope, and nurture, but the day comes when our children let go of our hands and venture forth into the world to taste it on their own terms, and that world—their world—is not ours to know…”

Clara Park tells of her relationship with her autistic daughter:

“She moved among us every day, among us, but not of us... She existed among us, (but) she had her own being elsewhere…”

So, too, was Mary called to trust the ways of a child who was hers, but not hers… who drew his being from her and from somewhere else beyond her understanding.

Finally, we forget the survivor’s pain. “The path of the dead is in the living,” wrote Italian poet Giuseppe Ungaretti. Regardless of how we read scripture or what we believe, these memories would never go away. These sorrows persisted within her.

For all these reasons, we say to her most tenderly, “Hall Mary, Pietà, May God be with Thee.”

©Gilbert Friend-Jones

Thirty-four Years to Go, But Who’s Counting?

I am reprinting this in honor of a friend who recently celebrated her 40th birthday.

Thirty-four years. That’s approximately how long I may have left, according to a friend. Thirty-four. The “average” man who lives to be my age can expect thirty-four years more. Since I am neither more nor less than average in most categories, why should I be different in this?

Thirty-four. Depending on your situation that may sound like a lot, or a little. To me, it’s not much. Less than a “watch in the night” according to scripture. A “little day” according to a Jewish prayer. A raindrop falling ever more swiftly toward the sea.

It doesn’t help to be reminded of what other people have done in less than thirty years. Mozart, for example. Or the young Einstein. Or Jesus. I know what I haven’t done with more. I have more questions now than answers, more longing than satisfactions.

It’s not that I want to be president or pope. I don’t envy Bill Gates. I don’t want to trade places with Donald Trump. 

But Jimmy Carter has my attention. And Desmond Tutu. And the Dalai Lama.

I don’t want to be the mayor of a major city, but I’d like to help a decent mayor create a humane community. I can’t imagine being Billy Graham or Gardner Taylor, yet I’d like to speak a few original words that console or uplift. I do not aspire to the pulpit of a “tall steeple” church; I do hope that congregations I serve will come more closely to resemble the Beloved Community for which, I think, Christ lived and died.

As I face into what may be the last third of my life, this is what I know: Wisdom and wealth are not synonymous. Wisdom and poverty are not either. Power is neither evil nor good, but necessary for the realization of either. Silence contains more truth than many words. Sharing sorrow lessens it. Nice is not bad. Deep peace is possible in the midst of great suffering, yet a serene appearance may hide the deepest pain. Soul is real, but “real” itself is puzzling. Not one of us will be truly happy until all of us are truly happy. Grace is everywhere.

It isn’t much, but it’s a beginning. After all these years, it is  

© Budd Friend-Jones

Faith in a Minor Key, 2010

Posted: July 14, 2023